


The Sun of the Night

by Latter_alice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a mess but honestly what else is new, M/M, Vampire AU, Will update tags as we go, the one no one asked for but I swear is perfect conceptually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-02 10:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20708780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latter_alice/pseuds/Latter_alice
Summary: In which a very human Aziraphale unknowingly rents a live-in shop from a very not human, very vampire, Crowley, who inhabits the basement. He likes to shuffle tenants in and out as regularly as possible to keep up appearances and not have to move out of London, or kill anyone for finding out about his nature.Aziraphale… complicates this. In ways Crowley wasn't ready for. Success can only last for so long, in the end.





	1. Tempted

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I have no idea what Im doing. Havent written anything in 3 years. I have no solid plan, but I really love this ship, and really like this idea. Enough that I tried to write again, and did this in one sitting
> 
> Not confident I'll be the one to do something great with it, but we shall see! Hope you enjoy, and if you want me dont be shy to ask, cause I need to outline before I do much else here and that be some excellent motivation lol.

Part of Aziraphale was very, very afraid. Or was. Is? He couldn't decide, and instead hoped it wouldn’t be a recurring theme in this latest… development.

But-

The shop was quite _ quaint. _ He decided. Yes. Quaint. Quaint was good. He stopped grating his teeth on his bottom lip. _ Quaint. _

  
  
The Bustling of Soho’s population beeped, buzzed, and whizzed around him as he stood outside of the corner shops entrance. He was the only still thing in a five block radius, he would've guessed, but really didn't notice or care to. He barely took note of the very late afternoon sprinkle as dozens of little droplets tapped on his head, ran down his cheeks, slowly dampened his clothes. The only attention he had to spare was all for his current life decision staring him in the face. No time for rain or the hordes of busting people that, in their little fits of hurried annoyance, slithered and side stepped around him.

He weaved his way around them after a moment.

The door frame was in mint condition, a rather lovely shade of deep brown that glistened even in the overcast. His fingers very carefully ghosted over the door frame. It felt as smooth as his old marble countertops. A smile cracked its way on his face. He could taste the rain water, but certainly didn't mind.

The shop windows didn’t have a trace of damage, or a spec of dust, he noticed as he went to inspect them. It was all mint. He had decided, weeks ago by today, that the previous tenants reviews had to have been mental. The condition of the place alone was convincing enough that the word of warning didn't bother him much.

  
  
_ 2/10. The guy that owns the place is an arse. Wasn't worth the month of time I put into the place. _

_ 1.5/10. I knew the man was a night owl, but he failed to mention he was running a zoo!! Was just gettin my salon under order, and the bugger waltz upstairs with a fucking snake taller than most people and freaked out my frist bath of customers. Couldn't make lease after that bad publicity. Word of mouth hurts. _

  
_  
_0/10. Fucker made me throw out all of my religious imagery, and when I refused he kicked me out. Plus what kind of asshole wears sunglasses at night?? Would not recommend.

_ 0/10. The place is cursed. No shop stays open for more than a year. How does that even happen in such a prime location? Shitty management, and not from the store owners, that's how!!!! _

Okay, perhaps they worried him _ just _ a little. A tap on his shoulder disturbed him from his thoughts.

One of the burly mover men he had hired stood next to him, “We got the stuff in, Sir. Arranged just how ya said to.”

  
  
He beamed at him, and gave a slight nod. “Ah yes, thank you dearly. How much do I owe you for you troubles?”

  
  
“Well,” he wiped some sweat from his forehead, “Seems Mr. Crowley wanted to take care of it himself.”

That made his brows pop, “Oh! That's rather nice of him. I’ll have to give him my gratitude.”

  
  
With that, the movers left, and Aziraphale went to inspect his new shop and residence.

  
  
The shop doors pleasant little _ ding _ brought a smile to his face, but the true joy came from the set up itself. Bookshelves lined themselves against the back wall and framed the hall back to the living space and stairs to the basement. 

There were a few reading spaces set up with nice antique-looking furniture, spiral armchair handles and all, made of a dark, warm wood he was thankful seemed to match the wooden trim around the shop itself. A few empty stands were placed around that would hold his more eye-grabbing pieces. 

Customers! He could already see them walking through the little place, taking in the novelty of his life's collection of various first editions and timeless classics. He let out a small, wistful sigh. What he would've given to meet the likes of Oscar Wilde, Miss Austen, or-

But then, a truly terrible thought found its way back into his conscious mind. People- _ strangers, _ would be _ buying _ them. Well. 

One deep breath later and he decided it was, perhaps, time to think of something else. A problem for another day. The thick smell of parchment coming from all of his moving boxes he had so eloquently labeled STORE is very curved, very cursive, very extra sharpie strokes, helped ease his apprehension that had been steadily bubbling in his gut for days.

  
  
He walked towards the back hall, and flipped on a light switch that made a horrible, and probably unsafe, crackling noise before the hallway light popped on. 

It was a cramped little thing, barely enough room to fit one person on either side. He imagines if he laid down, he would have to bend his knees quite a bit to fit. To his right set a shabby looking white door labeled KEEP OUT in black metallic letters screwed in place. He could faintly make out where the word basement used to be painted, but it had to have been eons ago, since it was barely a ghost of what was there presently.

He nodded. “Ah, straight forward.”

  
  
To his left was what he assumed to be his in-store living space. He creaked open the deep-brown door and took a step inside. The studio was equally as quaint as the shop itself. It was warm in color, and was made even warmer by the setting sun that had slipped its way through the singular window in the middle of the wall in front of the door, splashing all the brown woods and cream colored cloth furniture in orange. On the left of the window was a small kitchen space, and on the wall to his right, an unmade mattress laid facing the window. What he presumed was a closet and bathroom sat on the far wall.

  
  
The almond colored paint looked new, he noticed, and smiled at the gesture. Surely the previous tenants had to be mistaken about the owner, so far the man seemed like he would be extremely pleasant to be around.

He put his musings aside to get work on the piles of boxes sitting around the place. The sooner he moved himself in, the sooner he could put some dinner and tea on and sink into one of those _ lovely _ chairs in the front shop with a book in hand. 

“No time like the present!”

*

_ Food _

The only thing that mattered. The singular word buzzing around Crowley’s head as his eyes cracked open-

And immediately slammed shut again.

A mistake. Waking up was always a mistake. His first breathe, forever the worst, brushed the back of his bone dry throat. It made every cell in his long dead body feel alive in the worst way possible as the pain burned him from within. It spread from his throat to his guts and out to all his limbs, like molten cough syrup. 

It used to make him scream. A small part of him longed for to do it again. He could feel his muscles making him circle together, almost fetal-like, as he suppressed it. The true need to scream he left behind centuries ago, before he knew how to deal with waiting too long to drink.

He took his hands, and clenched his arms on either side. Let himself shake from clenching so hard, until that pain started to come remotely close to the one in his throat. He centered himself around that secondary pain. Long enough to calm himself, long enough to collect his more rational mind.

The old method still worked. His senses dulled down and muscles relaxed, and he could feel the silk of his sheets and his nightwear again. 

He groaned and mumbled, “Blasted Mondays.”

Last time he would sleep through the weekend ever again, Maybe. Probably. He shook his head and tried opening his eyes once more. It was dark, pitch black to most people, but, as it turns out, Crowley wasn’t a person, and had a pristine capability to see everything in the dark as if it were midday and sunny. The colors looked different despite that, though. Muted. Grey-ish. Appropriate. Just as things looked different in LED lighting versus a sunny afternoon.

  
  
Now, _ sunny _, on the other hand, wasn't something the man particularly cared for. Sometimes he dreamt of his foggy human recollections of the sun. He’d seen the blue of the sky on a few occasions here and there, through the windows of the various shops he hosted, but thats where his interaction with day had ended. All he had left were dreams of memories from a person he stopped being ages and ages ago, somehow still seeping into his mind to remind him of what the sun of all things looked like. That did remind him though-

He pulled his cell phone off of the black night table. 7:45 P.M. Two missed alerts. He swiped it open, and pulled the device to his ear to listen to the voicemail.

_ We helped move your new tenant in, Mr. Crowley. Guy seemed surprised. Just let us know if anything needs moved around again. _

His teeth clenched and, suddenly, his head had a bit of a dull ache in it.

“_ Fuck. _”

He had really meant to get a shipment in before the new thorn in his side arrived. He promised himself once more to never sleep through the weekend again.

  
  
He tossed the thing on the mattress before he pushed the comforter and sheets aside, burying it. May as well get this process over with.

  
  
His living space was fairly simple. He had a large mattress dressed in black silk, a grey-black schemed paint job, hard laminated flooring, one closet, and a fridge that was held closed by a chain and a padlock. No lamp, though there was a ceiling fan that had a light in it, he supposed. Off on the opposite end of the room was a thin door that lead to the other end of the flat space. A few well stocked wine racks were pressed against the empty wall space

  
  
He walked to his closet, and proceeded to jam himself into his tight black cloths he lived, and reached the top shelf for one of his many _ many _ pairs of circular, black sunglasses. The bright red eyes tended to scare humans, and if he was honest, he didn't like the remainder himself too much either. Win-win. Woohoo.

He grabbed the keys to the fridge out of his jacket pocket, unlocked it, and opened one of the double doors. The cold fluorescent light lit up the dark room, casting long shadows and making Crowley squint under his glasses. The coolness that came from the new wave of fresh air almost felt warm to him as he scanned his dwindling supply of food.

Within were roughly 5 unopened bags, and a single, almost empty bag sitting on the fridge’s shelf. He plucked it from its secluded spot, set it on the counter next to him, and examined a streak of red that had slipped out of the damned plastic contraption at some point last week.

Slowly, he ran a long, pale finger across it, licked it, grabbed a fresh bag, and slammed the door shut.

He immediately worked the freak bag open and practically chugged it.

Hundreds and hundreds of years later, and he still couldn’t quite describe the _ sweetness _ of blood. Can’t choose the correct words in the right order to really convey how it made all of his muscles turn into a must, how it gently filled his veins with honey, how as it slipped past his throat and the one constant ache vanished for that glorious time period and let him feel alive and whole. His consciousness was always reduced to pure sensation for those few seconds. 

He poured the nearly empty bag from the door into a wine glass, about a quarter of the way up. 

He couldn't decide if it was fortunate or _ un _fortunate, but the small amounts he lived on at a time really only bathed him in sweetness. He never got a full humans worth that really sold the experience. Only occasionally when he had more bags come in would he indulge. 

But this was good too, he thought as he wiped the corner of his lips. He took a bottle of wine off the counter and drowned the little remaining blood with it in the cup. It didn't mix perfectly, especially when the bag wasn't freshly opened, but it was good enough. It was a precaution, mostly.

  
  
This was enough to insure he wouldn’t kill his new tenant before saying hello. Not that he intended to do it _ after _ either. And he should be warm enough for a handshake, though he was far less sure of that. Shouldn’t frighten the man too much either way. Hell, maybe this one wouldn't be an insufferable imbecile like the last few.

He ruffled his hair a bit before he grabbed a fresh bottle of wine from the rack, dragging it back to where his concoction was. He mixed it with his finger for a moment. And then a minute. And continued on doing just that until his phone buzzed again from the tossed aside covers.

He didn't need to look to know it was his reminder to welcome his latest victim, as he liked to call them, home. The annoying tune stopped, as did his mixing.

A sigh escaped him. “No time like the present.” 

It would be nice, he told himself as he scooped the glass from the counter. A very nice drink with the next man he’d have to throw out or get to leave, eventually.

And he figured that that was true enough as he pushed his way through his door and entered the hall.

The first thing Crowley noticed was a very thick scent of paper and dust, and immediately knew that whoever his buyer was had a taste for old books. His tongue glided over the back of his teeth.

The second, was the sound of sweet, almost melancholic piano music radiating from around the corner. It clung to the air, almost like a nice, rich chocolate dish cling and lingers on a person's pallet would. It sounded like it was coming from a record player, and, oddly enough, Crowley didn't seem to recognize the piece. Regardless, he decided the rain accompanied the piece exquisitely.

The third, and much more pressing honestly, was of something… burning? It was faint, but there. He chose to ignore it as he rounded the corner.

Ah, book. There were books everywhere. They lined the walls around his door frame. They sat in piles on tables. There were a handful of shelves crammed to the brim with the things. And they were all _ old _. No pretty pictures, or flashy colors. Just browns and forest greens, some grey, some black, deep, dingy blue spotted around. He could even see a pile of the things stacked next to the register up front, with a globe sitting on top of them, which he could have questioned the logic of but decided against it. The antique arm chairs and little lamps really sold the whole theme. The light was very warm in its color, it was almost like a yellow, aged parchment itself.

He hummed approvingly. It was a nice little jigsaw. Atmospheric. He wasn't expecting a bookseller but couldn't complain. Much better than what the hairdresser did to the place. His face scrunched up at the remainder of the horrid chemical smells that women had brought with her. No remorse in removing that nuisance form his life.

With that memory shoved to the back of his mind, he decided to address the elephant in the room. The very sweet scented, hard to ignore elephant. Which acknowledging made his throat burn ever so slightly. His grip on the bottle tightened. 

He took one long, deep breath that could get him through a handful of sentences if need be. He was sure he could control himself, but it had been a handful months since he’d fraternize with anyone. 

He took a few steps forward, and was met with an eyeful of creme sitting at one of the little reading stations put in, and all the breath that he had stores slipped away.

The plump man appeared to be around the same age as he was when he turned, which did an odd thing to Crowley's emotional state he didn't much care for. But that wasn't what really caught his attention, not what had given him a physical reaction.

His hair. It was an extremely light blonde he could only describe as angelic. Moon dust maybe? Or bleached. But he noticed that human men, if they were going to do that sort of thing, tended to stop before they reached his age, especially if they were the kind to wear cream colored suits casually and run a bookshop. And it looked soft, like a child's stuffed animal, all small curls with a nice downy, silky feel as your fingers tangle and pull. It was natural. Interesting. Angelic

And his _ skin _. It was such a soft, lovely shade of peach. His rather plump cheeks looked like they feel like a cloud. He found he wanted to do nothing more than reach out and touch it, see if that incredibly soft looking texture held up. He could put his hand on the mans face, glide his fingers across his cheek, feel the blood move under the surface, and turn that peach into some shade of red, and then-

That train of thought was also doing odd things to his emotional state he didn't care to ponder. He already seemed warm and inviting. It’d be so easy, if he were any worse of a person that he already was… his chest burned at that thought, not exactly unlike his thirst.

Crowley shook his head. Thinking was always a bad idea, one day he’d learn.

He cleared his throat. The man didn't look up from his book. He tried again. Crowley’s eyebrows raised. A third time had the same result. 

Does… Does this man have no sense of self preservation? 

If his kind wanted to be noticed, humans had a tendency to suddenly feel very uneasy. Get a crawl up there back that screamed that something not to be trifled with was looming. A curse. A threat. A shadow in the dark. Survival instinct is intuitive.

Yet… Nothing.

A different approach, perhaps. He restored his held breath before speaking.

“Wine?”

The soft cream colored man jumped so hard that if his grip had been any less strong, his book would have flown halfway across the room. Crowley cracked a small smile and sauntered over a little closer. Guess he had some sense after all.

*

To say he hadn't been expecting company would’ve been an understatement. He held his book to his chest, and motioned that he needed one moment to collect his now escaped breath. All he could think was that he was thankful he didn't yell. That would've been somewhat embarrassing.

“I’m sorry my dear boy,” he took a deep breath and hurriedly said, “You caught me in the middle of a rather engrossing section of text.”

“Oh, pft. Don't sweat it. I have that effect.”

He stood himself up, and sat the book down on the chair, sure to leave it open in his place. “I must have missed you coming in!”

The person before him, who he assumed was Mr. Anthony J Crowley, was incredibly lanky, he noticed as he sat down the offed bottle of wine on the end table next to them. The poor man looked like he hadn't had an actual meal in, well, centuries! Not that it took anything away from him. He had devilishly handsome red hair that pulled and spiked itself in ways Aziraphale wasnt sure could be done without gell. Surely it couldn't be natural..? 

But it did suit him, either way. The angular way he was shaped, the wild red hair, the tight black clothing that didn't leave much to the imagination. The reviewer wasn't kidding about the sunglasses, either. How odd. He couldn't say it wasnt stylish, definitely a theme there to be seen. 

Outside, thunder cracked in the distance.

Aziraphale outstretched a hand and smiled. 

“Mr. Crowley, I take it?” He looked like he hesitated for a split second before returning the gesture.

The others skin was soft, but also very cold to the touch. Concerningly so. He decided in that instant to turn the A.C down some when he got a chance. And also to, well, _ find _ the thermostat.

A hard smile, “Yeah, just call me Crowley.”

“Ah yes, it's a pleasure meeting you Crowley.” And the hand was pulled away, almost mechanically. Like the thought of any more contact then necessary was to be avoided in a systematic, pointed manner. He made a mental note of this as well, to hopefully not make the man uncomfortable at all going forward.

“I suppose this must make you Aziraphale,” he couldn't help but notice the frown, or the way he leaned in and tilted his head as he spoke, almost like he was trying to examine him,”What an interesting name.”

“I could say the same! But, if you’d like to discuss onomastics,” he walked to take the record player off of its needle a few paces back, “I’ll have to insist it's over that very nice looking wine bottle you’ve brought. I have a bit of dinner in the oven as well, which you are certainly welcome to.” He turned his head and smiled, “I made extra!”

He heard the man laugh. Then in what Aziraphale could only describe as a buttery tone, still filled with the edge of laughter, said, “Consider me tempted.”


	2. Complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner goes well. Truly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next will still be around 3-3.5k, but will probably start to get longer after. I have plans for this and I am e x c i t e d. I'll probably update on Sunday nights, and if I do it twice a week, then Thursday evenings as well. If things change on that it'll be posted on my Tumblr. Let me know if you're enjoying it so far :)

A single dingy, urine colored light drenched the small kitchen space from above the stove. If a person were to guess the kitchens ago, ten would be very generous. Or at least thats what Aziraphale had decided earlier in the day as he picked at the chipped white paint and had, briefly, attempted to remove a few dark patches with a sponge and some elbow grease. It all sort of looked like it came out of a catalog from the ’90s.

The light flickered.

His fingers felt almost like nothing as he scraped one of the four forks he owned over his thoroughly seared pan. The sensation had slowly been soaked out, leaving his fingers whittled with wrinkles and heavy.

A rather large piece clunked off, and he gagged at the renewed scent of burnt dairy and whatever the little black dots used to be.

The hush of the gently falling faucet water washed it away. He could still hear the banging of the rain coming down outside the window and the gentle rumble of the far off thunder, and traffic.

_ Tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Whoosh _

The chunk of metal was still a mess of charred zig-zags and brown spots. It wasn't going to come off without a sponge, which he had ruined earlier with the paint.

Aziraphale did… not cook often. Other people’s food was always so much more delectable, you see-

“So,” the word was drawn out. He squeaked the sink off as the other spoke, letting the pan and fork clank downward. “What _ was _ the abomination you just flushed down the drain?”

Abomination indeed. He sighed and felt his entire body slump as the air left him. Well, that was an hour of time down the drain. “A casserole.”

He had had a recipe book he had been saving, a gift, and had chosen what had appeared to be the absolute best dish in the whole thing, while still being easy at his less than stellar skill level. Studied the instructions overly carefully, but now was only left with an empty pan and a sense that his time had been completely wasted.

He heard the crumpling of his new, crisp comforter as Crowley wiggled about on it, he didn't bother to see and instead opted into looked at what was left of his work.

A scoff came from the bed, “Are you _ pouting?” _

His face snapped over to him in an instant, features rounded and lively. He even pointed as he spoke, “I’ll have you know, I put over an hour's worth of preparation into that dish!” 

He glared, but Crowley was more or less cast in darkness. Enough light traveled to where you could make out the general picture of an expression, but the details would be lost. Not that it mattered much, with those sunglasses on his face.

Crowley’s hands lifted up in surrender, but by then he’d already knocked the wind out of his own sails before anything got going. 

“I’m afraid all I have left in the fridge are eggs. Not much of a chef.”

A brief flash of his various times in his life so far that he had attempted to do it went through his head. Once or twice at college, and a handful of times here or there. It was, he found out, excessively hard to forget the putrid scent of _ very _ burnt flesh. Or the guttural and severe shock that the system goes into when, while expecting a bite of a treat, you barrage your tongue with a sharp soap taste, featuring its best friend baking soda. Even now the thought made his intestines coil in on themselves, desperately trying to prepare for an assault from almost a decade ago.

Crowley's chuckle is low and seems to fill the room with its presence. “Would never have guessed it.” 

Ah. He wanted to glare, but found that… he couldn't. His hand shot up to his temple as a cold shot went through his temple.

Crowley motioned toward the wine sitting on the bedside table. His voice felt like a warm, friendly hug, a smile snailed across his face as he spoke. “I was just looking for a drink anyway.” 

He swallowed. A chill clawed down his back.

_ Crack! _

Thunder erupted, and for a moment the room and Crowley were fully illuminated in an almost pure monochrome. All he could look at where his hidden eyes. The two black circles looked at him unblinkingly, seeing nothing, showing nothing.

As quick as it was there it was gone, back to a barely lit room. He wanted to tell Crowley to turn the lamp on, but instead, other words came out.

“Alcohol does make introductions go a bit better-”

He could feel all the peach fuzz on his arms and neck stand on end and found himself fidgeted his hands.

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed. And after a moment continued, “Or much, much worse,” he saw a very brief, very toothy grin, “if you’re unlucky.”

_ Ah. _

Things looked exceedingly _ grey, _ and he felt as if his bones had started to dissolve. Did he always feel this heavy?

“But I suppose _ you _ should eat.” It was… cheery? His ears were in a fishbowl, he couldn’t be sure. Crowley said something about eggs and looked straight at him.

The air had taken on a different quality. It was thick. Or was becoming that way, being taken and inside of his lungs. The air was a mist that, once inside, became more and more tar-like with each breath, like his chest was just churning it.

He shook his head and breathed out the words, “Not enough.”

He staggered a few steps away from the kitchen, his hand found a wall and he leaned. It’s cool, smooth surface released all the tension from his body for just a moment. He let out a shaky sigh and tried to peek back at Crowley from half-lidded eyes.

He was dead still and staring right at him. _ Tense _ some for off part of his brain informed him. He looked at his sunglasses, and one arm, very much on its own, gave a pathetic attempt to reach out to them.

In a flash, Crowley animated himself and gave a long wave of dismissal.

“Ack, don't worry about me, I ate earlier.”

He watched Crowley fidget around the kitchen for a moment before he opened the fridge, grabbed a carton of eggs- and his brain caught up just a bit.  
  
“I- what _ are _ you doing _ ? _”

“What does it _ look like _ I’m doing? Scrambling eggs is easy, and you've proven to be,” he hummed, “unreliable. And faint.’”

His eyes slipped closed, and he slugged his head back and forth. A shiver ran up his spine. There was a metallic taste in his mouth that turned his stomach. The word almost felt like a command. He didn't notice the arm around his waist until he went almost limp in it.

There was whispering, but it felt distant.

_ Just lay down _

That sounded lovely.

_ Don't need my tenant dying on the first day _

No arguments there

_ Sleep _

But he was already gone.

*

Sometimes Crowley forgot that his heart did, indeed, still beat. It was usually faint, a barely noticeable murmur, if a doctor would have ever tried to listen. But still there. Just needed outsourced blood.

But on the rare occasion shit like this would happen, then it was more like a jackhammer. Hard to not notice.

_ Why why why _

He slumped down to the carpet against the wall Aziraphale had just been barely hanging on to. A long breath deflated from his lips and then entered again. 

Deep breathing. 

He may not _ need _ to breathe, but it did still have some control over his heart and was a generally relaxing habit to have, even if there wasn't any physical relief that accompanied it like humans.

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

_ What the _ fuck _ was that? _

The temples of his head ached. Aziraphale's slow hums of breaths filled the room, confirming he wasn't dead despite previous appearances. He could feel his heart throbbing against his chest, and did not dare look at him.

Deep breaths. He cursed with every few exhales. 

Cars screeched on the street outside- his eyes snapped to the window.

Outside. Rain. _ Excellent _

He was on his feet faster than any normal person could be. He could feel the coolness from the doorknob seep into his skin and was thankful he did one thing right- just enough blood.

Aziraphale moaned as he clicked the door open, and he hesitated for just a moment as his skin crawled. He’d find a way to apologize, for whatever the hell went wrong. He darted out of the room, through the shop, and into the drizzle.

The spikes of ice that hit his face and sliced what skin was showing was a release. LIttle wake-up calls of sensation that forced his mind to leave its former headspace.

Goosebumps pulled at him. The blood from earlier had warmed his body enough that it did truly feel cold, let his skin appreciate the way the near-freezing daggers electrocuted the spaces they touched and the ones that missed him hammered the ground and puddles. If the cars would vanish completely, and the sparsely spaced people would stop chattering as they hurriedly shuffled to their cars, it’d be pure static.

He tilted his up and shivered as the water worked through his mess of spikes on his head, and, by that point, gently rolled over his scalp. Any last built-up tension was stripped away.

Cold- cold was good. He could _ think _ in the cold. The warmth was fuzzy. Impairing. Made him forget things that he really should always have at the forefront of his mind. 

Walking was also good. His eyes scanned the streets. Cars and people had mostly disappeared. He ran a hand through his now damp hair and chose a direction.

All he had wanted to do was charm the man, just a bit.

Something about Aziraphale's bubbling excitement over the whole ordeal, and his prior experiences with the pride of store owners, lead him to think that it’d just be easier to get him to relinquish the kitchen to him with a bit of occult help.

He could tell it’d most likely be a chore to get him to relinquish the kitchen, and he was _ trying _ to make this tenant at least leave a good review whenever he had to go. If that didn't happen soon he might have to move anyway if no one would rent.

It was simple. He’d done it a million times before. No one had ever _ fainted _. Just kind of did what he wanted. Usually. They’d at least become more willing to have a discussion about what he wanted, be persuaded much easier. No arguments then, any good impression he could've given would remain intact, and maybe he’d be left with a good review after the man's eventual departure. He’d need another tenant after, and too many bad reviews would make that difficult.

It was _ simple. _ No one had ever fainted. Even the one time he _ had _ tried to get someone to do something they never would otherwise, though that went pretty poorly as well. He even managed to protest quite vehemently, despite the actively fainting aspect.

Just… Why? He didn't do anything different.

He heard the bell of a shop door opening before he realized he was even entering.

Ah. His feet were two steps ahead of him. He’d make this quick.

He more so _ sloshed _ back into the shop than walked. It was still as warm and glowy as it had been earlier, and he made a not to turn the lights off later. For now, there were pressing matters at hand, and in his hand. Namely a warm cup of cocoa, and a plastic bag with a candy bar in it, courtesy of the closest gas station.

He slipped through the maze of books, twisting around the tables, careful not to touch them with damp cloths as his steps squeaked by.

No more than a half-hour must’ve slipped by, and hoped that it would be enough time for the blond enigma had to be at least a little recharged from whatever made his vampiric powers backfire so spectacularly. Strong mental note to never try that again.

He pressed the bottom of the still ajar door with his foot to open it.

He let the plastic bag slip from his hand and sat the paper cup down next to his wine glass, pulled the lamp string on, and promptly picked his glass up and chugged. Bittersweet, tart, and soothing. Melted away the burn just a bit.

He let his gaze drift to Aziraphale. His breaths were even, all traces of pain brushed away. The hint of peach had returned. Small drops of water hit the building like a lullaby. 

A hand reached out, but flinched it back before it got too far. 

_ This was the true test, he guessed. A mess of blond, a smile that touched every part of his posture, and an outstretched hand. He took it. _

_ And immediately slammed his eyes shut. _

_ Fire, an instant burning that radiated from his palm to his finger, and shot straight up through his arm, or at least it felt that way. If he concentrated on it, he knew the real culprit was his throat, desperately trying to lead him to his next meal. _

_ It had been months, and he waited too long to get up and drink, but this was a lot. _

_ He tried to smile back. “Yeah, just call me Crowley.” _

The lingering feeling of burning didn’t leave him until well after Aziraphale's apologies for burning the food died down and turned to scraping.

Deep breath.

Should he even be in the same room after causing whatever the hell that was?

The last time he woke someone up it was the last thing that person ever did. He shook his head. That was definitely _ not _ the thought he needed. 

Exhale.

Well. Best to get on with it.

He bit the inside of his cheek, almost to the point of bleeding, and reached his hand back out, and placed it on an upturned forearm so lightly he may as well have been touching paper mache. 

He gave it a small shake, “Aziraphale.”

No response. He tried again.

“Aziraphale, _ please _.”

He groaned and pulled his arm back. Crowley yanked his own away like it was about to be bitten off.

“Aziraphale!”

“What?” the man croaked out, and then proceeded to start coughing. When he started to push himself up he offered arm without thinking, which Aziraphale gladly took.

It calmed down, and the man rubbed his face a few times over before peaking out and, in an almost dead tone, asked, “What happened?”

“Well," he said, not _ un _sarcastically, "You fainted, mostly,” he snatched the cup of cocoa from the end table. “Here.”

He tried to push himself up. His arms shook under his own weight, and the moment his sheets gave and slipped ever so slightly, he fell back down too. When he started to push himself up a second time, Crowly reached a hand out without thinking. 

He leaned in and repeated himself, any venom drained, the word closer to an unsure question this time, “Here.”

Aziraphale gave a tight-lipped smile while he accepted the leverage.

The touch of the man's skin didn't burn as it had earlier. Instead, it was like taking a drink of a touch too warm beverage. Not enough to hurt, exactly. But there was an edge, a gentle sear that would make your mouth water and force your breath out after swallowing.

Aziraphale adjusted himself with the help, and slipped his hand away. Yet another thing that did something to Crowley’s emotional state he didn't care to examine. Didn't like how tight his insides had seemed to twist ever so slightly.

Oh boy he needed to get out more. 

The gas station cup of cocoa found its way into Aziraphale’s hands, and was promptly pressed to his cheek. He shuttered, and let his head fall forward.

Crowley wasn't exactly sure what to make of that. And it apparently showed, “Try?”

He shook his head, “You should drink it.”

He hummed and nodded, taking the advice.

A car whooshed by the window.

“That's a lovely ring, by the way.”

He examined his own hand, looking at the ring in question. It was a simple golden band made to look like the ouroboros. A permanent fixture. “Mmm.”

He grabbed the bag, crinkling it and fishing for the chocolate bar he had grabbed, and set it next to him. “Thought your, uh, blood sugar might have been low.” Which could be true. That wouldn't explain the magic mishap, but still.

“Erm, I don't think I should have so much sugar if I did indeed faint, but thank you, dear boy,” he looked over and smiled at him, “You’re awfully kind.” He swallowed

“Nn, yeah, s’no problem.” He stood up. And away.

Crowley felt… ill. There was something seriously out of place. Didn’t like how his shoulders had tensed, or the sudden urge to rub and scratch his fingers together, or how any moisture in his lips had cracked away to dust. 

A hand ran through his damp head of hair, and flung some of the water at the carpet. Perhaps, he decided, being a barely seen nuisance was better. _ Dear _ and _ kind _ were words reserved for specifically _ not _his lot.

He could live in the night, the true night, only show up once a week around closing to complain about some made-up issue, ask an invasive question, get under his skin-

“You didn't _ walk _out there, did you?” the offended tone snapped Crowley’s attention back to him. Very strikingly blue daggers looked back. He briefly wondered why he had only noticed just now how deeply blue Aziraphale's eyes where. Deep and rich, but somehow, oddly electric. Then the fact that he was asked something clicked.

His head cocked to the side. “Uh, yes?”

“It’s freezing outside! How reckless are you?” He almost sounded disgusted. His lips were pressed into a hard line, eyebrows scrunched together. He sounded like a kid berating their overactive child. His hair sticking up in all manner of directions after his light nap didn't help his case, either.

The idea that _ he _ was being mothered made a very audible laugh bubble from his chest, whether it was true or not, that tangled into his response, “I like the rain.”

A scoff. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Do you also happen to enjoy pneumonia by chance?”

“Oh, I don't think I need to worry about that one,” the smile still plastered his face.

Aziraphale shook his head and then sipped at the cocoa, and the sigh he let out sounded so relieved Crowley felt himself relax too.

“I could still make some eggs, while you’re,” he looked him over once slowly before choosing a word, “Indisposed.”

He waved a hand. A manicured one, Crowley noticed. His nails literally glistened in the light of the lamp. “Oh you don't have to fret about that, I’m feeling much better.”

“You sure?”

Aziraphale looked at his cup, and a small smile etched his face, not unlike a child that thought they were getting away with something. He took another sip. “Well, if you insist.”


	3. Good Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraternizing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a draft of the last chapter in Aziraphale's pov, if anyone is interested in reading that, it's on my tumblr under the "Ineffable vampire" tag. That may or may not happen again, some scenes I have planned either could be the pov character and it'd work, so who knows.
> 
> This is short, but I think this is the last bit of set up before things start getting set in motion, so that's always fun. My birthdays on Tuesday so probably no update until next Sunday. We shall see
> 
> Tell me if you enjoyed it <3

Newton had taken the last few days to personally walk across the entire city of London. He went door to door, in the unprecedented amount of rain, to ask every establishment owner about potential work offers.

Unfortunately, the vast majority of said establishments had a tendency to require its employees to use certain pieces of technology that had the unfortunate probability of breaking down, or on one memorable occasion, burst into flames.

He saw the books stacked up through the windows from the other side of the street, and, in his hurry to cross, a car screeched to a stop, narrowly missing him. He remained optimistic as his eyes examined the shop entrance.

_ A.Z Fell Literature. _

He peeked at his watch, careful to not disturb the folder he had clutched in that same hand under his jacket.

9:47, and the lights were on. 

From the cover the entryway gave from the rain, he ran a hand along himself, and desperately tried to brush his clothing of droplets. He gave his glasses a few shakes before he slid the door open.

The bell gave a small, clear ding as he shuffled into the shop. Cool air rushed across his raindrop filled face, and he was hit with the very familiar smell of a library. The shop was a small jungle of books bathed in yellow and brown. He brushed himself off once more before taking a walk around the place.

And empty, but also devoid of any signs of technology. He felt his entire essence heave a sigh of relief. Dozens of stores he’d visited today crept through his mind- not a single was computer free, so they would also remain Newton free.

He strolled to the register- also littered with books- and looked for any sign of life.

A door clicked to his right. He whipped himself toward it and called out, “Hello?”

Unfortunately, along with the call, he sent a pile of books crashing to the ground. He cursed, dropped to the floor, and scurried to collect the evidence of his much up.

“Good lord! My boy, what are you doing here?”

He felt his cheeks warm as he yanked the books into his arms. “Sorry, I’m just a bit, uh. Unlucky,” He rushed up and placed the books back by the register. “Are you Mr. A.Z Fell?”

He was met with a hand when he turned his head, “Aziraphale.”

A middle-aged peered at him. He was still in a suit at nearly 10 at night, and his sticking blond hair looked like it was styled by a pixie. He grabbed the hand instantly. “And who may I be accompanying?”

“Newton,” he scrunched his face, “Newt for short.”

The man, Aziraphale he supposed, odd name, grinned at him, “I am very pleased to meet you, but,” his hand slipped away, “I’m _very _sorry to say we are, not in fact, open.”

He fished for a water-free resume from his folder as he spoke. “Oh, well, that's all right. Was actually-”

“S’everything all right? Heard somethin’ fall-”

A smooth voice cut through his own words. He looked up to see a lilly-white man that, with hair that looked like strands of dried, and spiked, blood, practically sauntered towards them. 

“Ah,” he finished.

Something about the man was deeply unsettling. Like a doll with eyes that looked a bit too real, or a shadow in the corner of your eye that vanished if you bothered to check. Perhaps it was the sunglasses. He tried to ignore it, and focused his eyes on the more chipper of the two.

The blond’s attention snapped toward the other man instantly, and a smile bounced its way back onto his face. The assurance melted from his mouth, “No need for alarm.” He practically hopped as he positioned himself between the two.

“Crowley, this is Newton!” he motioned towards the other, “Newton, Crowley.”

Aziraphale gravitated towards him as he spoke. His smile was bright and he oozed pleasure in his words, like a doting boyfriend instead of a store owner. “First customer!”

Crowley nodded once at him, “Newton, eh?”

He smiled, “Newton Pulsifer-”

“A Pulsifer!” 

“Uh, yes?”

“Well, you're a descendant of the last great witch hunter!” Crowley scoffed, and Aziraphale's features flattened. “Unfortunate point in history, really,” he said to no one in particular.

“Ah, yeah, good old relatives-”

“I think unfortunate is putting it a bit lightly, Aziraphale,” he crossed his arms, and sneered, “They _ burned _ people. _ Alive _. An awful warm-up to all the lynching a bit later if you ask me.”

“Well, that is an interesting observation. Perhaps my wording was a bit inappropriate-”

“Uh, excuse me.”

“Oh yes, I'm terribly sorry! Please go on.”

“Well,” his fingers brushed the edge of his resume, “I was hoping you might have a spot open for work. I apologize for, uh,” he looked between them, trying to decipher what exactly their relationship was, “interrupting you, but the light was on, and I just sort of,” he paused, “Figured.”

The feeling of warmth seeped from his chest to his cheeks as he had the most uncomfortable flashback to high school and his many adventures as a third wheel. “Am I interrupting something?”

Aziraphale's brows pinched together for a moment, before a slight look of panic set in as his eyes darted to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Moody. “Oh! No no no,” he managed another smile at him, “You’re of no trouble to us.”

“Well,” Crowley said, “He technically is interrupting.”

Newton shivered. 

“Oh, do ignore him. But we are closed. Haven't even opened yet, actually.”

“Ah.”

Silence consumed. They all looked at him. He fought the desire to scamper away. Instead, he shoved a piece of paper at the more welcoming of the two. “Well. If you need help, here’s my resume.” Aziraphale took it, and Crowley peered over his shoulder, reading along.

“It says here you’re a… computer engineer?,” he paused, “And you want to work with _ books? _” Crowley sounded incredulous at the thought

“A love for literature knows no school of thought, _ Crowley _.”

“Are there any computers here?” his eyes dashed around the mess of books, looking for any last signs.

“I’m afraid not, never took a liking to them myself. Only on the occasion.” The words eased Newt once again.

“Humans have made literal _ magic _ and you don't have a ‘ _ liking’ _ to it?” he made air quotes with his hand as he stared at Aziraphale.

“That's a relief. I'm actually not very good with them, been fired from about twelve different places cause of it.” Crowley stared at him now. He swallowed. “Tend to break on me.”

“The both of you,” he threw his hands up, “Are incredible. In the worst possible way.”

“Don't be rude to our guest,” he said.

Crowley laughed once, humorlessly. “Unbelievable. Actually unbelievable. You know what,” he snatched the application, “You’re hired. If he has nothing for you I’ll find something. Can’t _ wait _ to see this disaster. I need more alcohol.” He trudged off and disappeared into a tightly nooked hallway, grumbling about them being a match made in heaven.

Aziraphale quickly apologised and took his phone number before he ran after the other.

Well. That was good enough for him, he supposed.

*

“I still can’t believe you thought I was _ lying _ about a laundry room,” Crowley quipped as he let himself sink into a leather recliner that was more a relic of the ‘70s than anything else. Dust filled the air from the audible plop, and he sank into the soft depths of it as he had many _ many _ times prior.

He pushed his sunglasses up as he stared at Aziraphale shuffle through the tight space, and gently place himself in the center of his, rather new, beige love set. He frowned, somehow the harsher light made his hair looked like it was almost glowing even more. 

“It's not that I thought you were _ lying _, I had just assumed this was a bathroom.”

His chin jerked towards a slender white door sitting in the faded red walls, “That,” he bent down to a box next to his seat, “Is the bathroom.”

He snagged two wine glasses from it. If there was one thing he was thankful still affected him as an undead, it was _definitely _alcohol. Only thing that got him through the 1700s. And the 1800s, really. Or a few choice decades here and there.

The room wasn't fancy by any means, mostly a tight little box that barely held the furniture in it. More dust than air it seemed, but vampires weren't exactly one for allergies, so he didn't worry about it. He only ever used it to interview potential renters in it, back in the day.

“Crowley I’ve seen shoeboxes with more room than this.”

“Hey I didn't design the place,” he gestured towards the few wine bottles on the table, “Shall we?” He nodded.

The cork popped off easily. The wine gleamed in the light and watered his mouth as he filled the two cups. The scent of the bitter berries ran free and mixed with the, already familiar, smell of Aziraphale's burning blood. It was almost floral, but no flower truly matched the ripping, honey-coated blade that was blood.

He offered Aziraphale one of the glasses, and snatched his from the table before he sank back into the seat.

He watched his eyes survey the room. Dust danced in the air between them. “It's filthy in here.”

Crowley took a drink, and it alleviated the slight burn that was ever persistent. “Sounds like a problem you’ll have to get busy with tomorrow then, hm?”

He hummed an agreement before taking a drink himself. His eyes danced back toward him, curious, “So, what got you into landlording?”

He took a long drink, and thought about how to specifically _not _lie, if he could.

He leaned back, pushed himself up just a bit. Deep breath, “Family tradition I suppose?’

“You don't seem like the traditionalist type,” he said, and took a light sip.

A smile etched his face. Perceptive already. “You could say it's a bit of an inheritance.”

“Ah, so you have a family you’re in contact with then.”

He sucked in a quick breath through his teeth. No use lying about that one. “Fraid not, anyone I’d be interested in seeing again is _ long _ gone.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear my dear boy! That must be awful,” His eyes had popped and the sickening sound of _ sympathy _permeated his words.

Crowley's chest felt tight. He waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “S’no problem.”

He took a long drink, finishing off the glass, and quickly plucked the bottle up to refill.

This wasn't going as he intended. He took the lead. “So,” he rested his chin in his hand, leaning onto the arm of his chair, “What series of unfortunate events dumped you here?”

“Well,” he looked at his cup, and fidgeted in place. “That _ is _a question, isn't it.”

Crowley waited.

“I suppose,” he dragged the word out, “I always loved literature. Collected books as a child. Teacher's pet,” he pulled his lips into a line. He gave a slight shrug. “Bit of a stereotype.”

“Agck, probably not the case,” he took a swig. Something interesting had to be there to explain his earlier fainting spell. “What’d you do for college?”

He looked almost guilty. “English major,” he smiled sheepishly before sipping at his cup.

He lifted his brows as far as they could go, “Thesis?”

“Ah yes. I studied Milton's work mostly. Wrote my final paper over Paradise Lost.”

“Sympathy for the Devil?” he teased through a smile.

He scowled, “I suppose that isn’t _ wrong, _” He finished his drink off as Crowley laughed. He filled it back up for him, and Aziraphale’s hand brushed his when he grabbed it. IT was electric, and the afflicted skin tingled

“Odd position for a man with an angel name.”

He chuckled and slumped just the slightest bit into the loveseat. “I’d wager it is, when you put it that way,” he took a long drink. “It’s tragic though, is it not?”

“What?”

“It was never going to be any different for him. God doesn’t play games.” His smile drooped, devoid of any actual joy. 

“The curse of the inevitable.” He dragged his eyes toward the door and tried not to spit the words before taking a drink. “Think the angels were always meant to fall then, too?”

He glanced at him through the cage of his sunglasses sides. Aziraphale pursed his lips as he pondered. “In Milton's work, probably, but in reality,” he sighs, “Who knows. Ineffable really.”

He scoffed, and repeated, “_ Ineffable? _ ” He turned his full attention back to him, “Is _ that _ what we’re calling it now?”

He backtracked. “If I _ must _ answer, then yes.” Thunder roared through the open door.

Crowley said nothing, and instead leaned into his armrest again, waiting for him to continue. Flashes of lightning leaked in.

Aziraphale took a sip, and glanced towards the door himself now, “Free will,” he said, “given an infinite amount of time, _ would _ produce that result eventually.”

His heart skipped a beat, something about it made him feel like it was directed at him instead. He took a long sip before continuing, “Ack, Heaven sounds dull anyway.”

“But its _ paradise _-”

“Eternity of harps and bloody _ gospel _ music?” He bent to the table and topped their glasses off. “No thanks. Bet the rules are stricter up top too. And,” he looked pointedly at his companion, “if the angels got dropped out, what's keeping anyone safe?”

“So you’d- What, rather go to _ Hell _?” He left his cup on the table.

His face scrunched, “Nah. Like where I am just fine,” he slipped his cup to his lips, “Paradise is subjective.”

“That isn’t practical. We all die.”

“Practi_cality _,” the word popped from his mouth. He planted his glass on the table and met his gaze, “be damned.”

“Damning it doesn't fix the issue of mortality.”

“At this point, I’d take_ any _consequence to avoid that existential mess,” he paused, losing some of his steam. “Probably end up downstairs anyway though.”

Aziraphale's face fell. “It’s never too late-”

“Don't try to save me,” he cut off. “Even if you’re an angel, which I’m sure you are,” Aziraphale shifted in his seat, “some things aren't worth it.”

His cheeks looked rosy. Manicured hands picked at the couch cushion. “Perhaps a change of subject.”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale picked his glass back up. Crowley did the same. Back to digging. “Any family?”

“No one I’d really like to think of at this moment.”

“Cheers to that,” he said, lifting his cup a bit. Aziraphale mimicked him and drank. “Lovers?”

Tight-lipped smile. “None to speak of.”

Crowley let out a huff of air. Certainly that was a lie. He was soft in any way a person could be it seemed. His words slipped from his mouth like feathers floating from a forgotten bird, his skin had been smooth, his hair was, well, angelic, and his actions had all been kind.

“Oh come on, not even in college? Your lot make it out like its a brothel.”

He took in one shaky breath, “There was a, ah, fling.”

“And what was the lucky lady's name?”

The grimace at his question told him all it needed to, and he couldn't help the small smile that crept its way in place. “Best forgotten. I,” he looked anywhere but Crowley, “_ have _ gone on a few dates, throughout the years.”

“None stuck?”

His nose crinkled as he stared into the red liquid. “Afraid not.”

“Well, that's a _ bloody _ shame for them.” 

If he hadn't been blushing before, he was now. “Love isn't for everyone.”

“Oh don't be like that, you’re still young.” Not for everyone, if you happened to be a creature of the night. Humans always had a chance.

Laughter bubbled from his chest. “You’re quite funny,” he took a sip and clanked his almost empty cup down, “Who’s that woman supposed to be?

Crowley followed his gaze to near the washer, and low and behold, there was an ancient painting of a ghost-white woman hanging in the middle of the back wall. She was scratched into existence by large, wild strokes of a brush. Her hair was curled and untamed, and her dark red eyes seemed to glow as they stared straight into the onlooker.

Aziraphale's earlier words echoed in his mind, but the voice had changed. He remembered seeing that same shade of red look at him and sneer. 

_ “God doesn’t play games. Accept it.” _

Crowley shook his head and swallowed through his half-closed throat. “Woman I used to know,’ he finished his glass off, “Was a real bloodsucker.”

“Oh, so you’re a painter!”

He bobbed his head from side to side, “When I wanna be.”

He hummed, “Well, this has all been lovely. I don't get to speak of my old thesis very often, but let’s not over-egg the pudding.” He leaned forward and quickly finished off the glass, ”I’ll have to cook you something next time.”

“Don’t be silly,” he pointed, “I've seen you cook.” Aziraphale gave a slight glare, “Botched job aside, I have a pretty,” he sucked in a deep breath that made his insides sizzle. He winced. “_ limited _ pallet.”

“Oh, I hadn't taken you for the picky type. I’m _ sure _ I could accommodate.”

He frowned. “I’m sure you could. Imagine it wouldn't end well though.”

He sighed, “I suppose that's true. At least allow me to repay you with dinner somewhere else,” he beamed at him, “My treat.”

The snapping reality of how _not good _of an idea that was floated around his head. He should say no, but the offer dangled in front of him like the unpicked apple. Shiny, not allowed. Questioning.

He still didn't understand the fainting spell. If this turned into a pattern, surely he could break it off at any time. Really, he hadn’t even lied yet, hadn't had to. 

A smile slithered into place.

“If you insist.” 


	4. Abaddon's Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of free time tonight and tomorrow, next chapter will be up Wednesday for sure.
> 
> As always, let me know if you enjoy <3

The bookshop was quiet on its opening day. Newton scribbled and scratched at a clipboard from the other side of the room, and was, for some reason, in a three-piece tux. Aziraphale made small  _ shoosh _ noises as his fluffy, ancient duster glided across the shelves. A few window shoppers had dotted the store in the last few hours, but there wasn't a soul to be seen presently. Just slight chatters and laughs from outside the shop's windows.

The week had bustled by. He buzzed from one place to the next- the bank, the bookshop, the post office, and back again. But, it paid off. All I's dotted, all t's crossed.

His danced from one spot to the next, gentle as a breeze with each stroke of the duster. The store was legal and licensed, and they were open for business.

A large cluster of loosened dust made Aziraphale sneeze. How it had managed to collect and cling to every surface imaginable eluded him. 

One interesting thing had happened in that stretch of time, though. Patterns emerged- or started to, anyhow.

The sun would slip past his curtain and into his eyes, his alarm would buzz, and soon enough his not-quite employee would show up, and slight mini-lectures would happen during their brief periods of organization. He did need to be educated on the material if he expected to actually  _ sell _ it.

He smiled. Newton was already trying so  _ hard. _ He could see him scratch at the clipboard, eyebrows pinched, as he scanned each book like it was a fine bit of jewel embedded in a rock wall on some excavation. Newton was even the one to  _ suggest _ taking inventory.

Crowley had been a curious case. The sun would dip, and eventually, he'd claw his way into the shop, give Aziraphale a small razor of a smile, make a quip about something or another, and dissipate into the night.

Perplexing, but ultimately inconsequential. Not a hint of truly rude behavior. No snakes yet either. Just a night owl

Two days prior, he’d made an effort to repay him for their first night by mentioning dinner plans.

_ “Oh,” Crowley said, as if he’d forgotten completely. “We’ll have to rain check it. I'm headin out tonight. Soon.” _

_ “Lunch?” _

_ He had a sharp intake of breath, and turned to watch him from the door. “Doubly so for that one Im afraid. Caio!” _

The light wind-chime ring of the shop's entrance caught his attention as cold air crept through the room in a rush of wind.

"Aziraphale!"

He turned his head, and his painted smile melted. 

“Gabriel,” he said.

Gabriel was a monolith of a man. All angles, but not like Crowley. Crowley's angels were slants and small, scratches in a sketchbook, actions implied. Fidgety. Gabriel's were hard. Right angels. Measurements. Proper posture- an edge of something Aziraphale never could put into words, but it made him shrink and tightened his chest.

His nose was stuck in the air, and his eyes cut through him. A small girl slipped around him. Clothes as grey as the rain clouds clung to his skin, and he held a potted green plant.

His lips were turned up, but it wasn't really a smile. He scanned the store. “It is filthy in here.”

“Well,” his voice weakened as Gabriel strode towards him. “you know how it is,” he motioned to the bookshelf as he resumed dusting, subdued. “Old books and all.” His movements were like a trapped bird. Twitchy. Quick.

“No."  _ Gabriel's _ voice, on the other hand, was strong. It has always carried an air of self-assured confidence Aziraphale only mustered on the occasion. A businessman's pitch. A sturdy pitch that engulfed. “I came here to remind you that the wedding  _ is  _ still happening.”

He managed a light grin. “Oh, yes, of course-”

“We all know how you can be,” he gave a single laugh, “So," he play punched the side of his arm, " _ fickle. _ ”

"Quite so.”

“I presume you’re still coming, correct?” 

He looked back with a slightly less strained smile. “Oh, you can count on me, no worries.”

Gabriel’s grin resembled a shark, all angels in the wrong way, “Excellent, excellent. Well-”

A soft crash interrupted him. Aziraphale instantly turned to see, surprisingly enough, Crowley surrounded by about a dozen books on the floor, a collection of children's storybooks from the 19th century.

He held his hands up, and looked directly at Aziraphale. If snakes could smile they must’ve learned it from Crowley.

“My bad.”

He tried to mask his almost laugh as a sigh.

“Oh dear,” he shook his head, “look at you.” He practically hopped to the pile before he bent to clean it. He could feel his face lighten. “Making a mess of things, are we?”

“You have no idea.” Crowley laughed as he went to help. “Bit  _ clumsy _ today.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. Aziraphale sprang upright and shoved the books into Crowley’s arms.

“Anyway,” He handed the plant to his brother. The plastic was flimsy and cold. “Be sure to  _ not _ forget, Aziraphale," he leaned in. "Mary’s sick again. Might need your help setting up. Stay on top of things.” 

Biting remarks. Thick makeup. Yelling. Wednesday night church. His world always seemed to tilt a bit at the mention of her. "I-I see."

He patted him on the shoulder with a heavy, rough hand. “Oh, and you're little,” he grimaced, “boyfriend, is scary. Keep your lifestyle choices here.”

And with that, he was gone. 

Aziraphale stared down at the leaves on the plant. They were still and crisp, aside from the ones Crowley twisted in his moonlight kissed fingers. He flipped them back and forth, like a gentle page turn.

“Pitiful,” he sighed. “I used to have a garden. Mine never had spots.”

“Mm. How was that?” He peaked up, and saw his own reflection in the tilted black lenses.

His gaze was focused on the leaves. "Was alright. They learned to behave."

He dropped his hand and motioned towards the door, “That guy was kind of a dick.”

Aziraphale's whole posture sank. “My sibling.”

“Nah, couldn't be."

"Mhm."

"That blokes not related to  _ you _ .”

He saw a girl wandering around from earlier stop at the register. “Afraid so.”

“I'll take the plant,” he said. Aziraphale offers no protest. Crowley curled the pot in one arm, and continued picking at the leaves. “Bloody basil.”

He beamed, as much as he could, at the frail teenager in front of him. Her hair stuck out of her lazy ponytail, and her eyes sagged.

"Hello my dear, find something to your liking?"

She chewed on her lip and handed him a familiar book.

The light brown leather buckled under his hand, centuries of use wore the binding thin and frail- almost paper-like itself.  _ Holy Bible _ was inscribed on the front in a flourished text that twisted at the ends.

It was an early addition. An early 19th-century bible, second print. He'd gotten it for his 18th birthday, a gift from his sister. It was the last thing he'd ever received from her. 

How had it even  _ gotten _ out here?

He peered around to the shelves. Each book was a collector's item. His heart dropped. A considerable portion were gifts at some point too. Testaments of times in history, and times of his life.

He dragged his eyes back to the register, came up with a price he thought fair, and rang her out.

“Thanks.”

He didn't meet her eyes, “Of course. Cheerio.”

The book was lost now. Aziraphale knew every crevice of its leather binding, knew the exact pattern the chipped brown leather made along its outline. And he'd never touch it again.

He didn't notice Crowley had walked to him until he spoke, “Do you not  _ like _ selling your books?”

His face twisted. “Apparently not.”

“That isn’t very- what’d you tell me the other night?” he paused, “ _ Practical _ .”

"Well. You see," his fingers trudged across the registers table. “They're  _ very _ rare, a lot of them anyway,” he looked up, “I can't guarantee their safety.”

Crowley's gaze seemed focused on him as he frowned. “You could rent them out.”

The edge of his lips turned up, “That doesn't solve the problem, dear boy.”

The chime rang out, and Aziraphale felt physically ill.

A dark-haired woman with perfect bronze skin stalked towards them. A newspaper was crunched against her green dress.

Her face was pure fire, and directed entirely at Crowley.

" _ Delivery. _ " She sneered, and shoved the paper into his chest.

He snatched it with his free hand. "What're you on about, women?"

She took an irritated breath and took a quick glance at Aziraphale. "You're supposed to  _ tell me _ when things happen, Crowley."

"And I bloody do."

She pushed her glasses up. “Just tell me what you think. I'll be back tomorrow."

"I could use an  _ actual _ delivery, ya know." He plopped the plant on top of a book pile.

"I already  _ know _ ," she smiled. "I'm working on it."

"Work  _ harder _ ," he said.

All she did in return was pat him on the head. “Be easier if it stopped raining, hm?” She walked towards the door, and before she left called out over her shoulder, "Tomorrow!"

Aziraphale just stared at the place where she had been for a moment.

Some sort of accusation. Fire in her words. American accent. Apparently the news was important?

“Well. That was an  _ interesting  _ woman," Aziraphale picked the pot up, "How do you know her?”

His voice was dry. "Family friend.”

"Oh, well-"

He clutched the paper in his hand, and gazed at it as he cut Aziraphale off. “Look, I gotta," he spared him a glance, "I gotta go. We’ll talk dinner tomorrow.”

*

_ 8 Found Dead, Local Night Club’s Shabby Defense Rebuked _

The newspaper's headline looked bleak in the streetlights harsh fluorescent hue. Bleached. Lifeless.

Crowley took a deep breath. His hand slid from the steering wheel, his posture slouched into the leather. The tendons on his knuckles cried- he’d gripped the wheel with the force of death itself as he’d driven street to street.

The paper taunted him. He snatched it from the passenger's seat and immediately tore it to shreds. Its dismembered corpse was disposed of on the Bently’s floor.

“Reckless  _ bastards _ .”

He’d read the blasted thing over at least four times before his parole around London started. It was clear. Multiple dead, more than a few drained of blood. All from one location. Anathema had read the signs, even if they  _ did _ blare it from high Hell. They were on their hands and knees, a plea clear in their actions.  _ “Please, won’t someone  _ catch  _ me?” _

Which had led him here. Blue and purple lights misted his car from down the street. The night was mostly still by this hour, but not in this corner. He could hear the mess of synthetics that passed as music from a block back. He attempted to drown it out with his  _ Best of the 70’s _ mix, but to no avail.

The building's exterior crumbled in most parts. Edges of white paint chipped off, a chunk of its concrete walls had fallen off in places. A neon-blue sign read  _ Envy _ in stylized cursive letters, and sat in a box of purple and pink squares. A single unassuming door sat under it.

Some dump trying to pass as a good time.

He knew he should head inside, mix and mingle with the group of very loud, very intoxicated, very  _ I’d-love-to-go-home-with-a-stranger _ cesspool of humans. Knew he’d find the source of the headline, probably looking more human than ever.

His fingers danced on the edge of his door handle.

More people would die. 

Vampires loved nightclubs. It was easy. It was clean. No murder needed. Blood and alcohol mixed extraordinarily well in his experience. 

A woman burst through the door and his skin  _ crawled _ . She gave no pause as she strutted towards the block corner, and stopped to light a cigarette. Her face was framed by thick, dark curls. She was wearing sunglasses.

And staring right at him.

He exploded from the car. Puddles splashed under his shoes as he dashed.

She reacted just as fast.

“Wait!”

She threw the cigarette and was around the corner before it hit the ground. He followed

“I just wanna talk!”

He turned and fell to the concrete. His face took the brunt, and embedded itself into the loose pieces of sidewalk. His head shot up. Empty, not a soul in sight. Only a long stretch of deserted road.

“Fuck.”

Small meows caught his attention. He glanced towards his feet. A flurry of baby kittens fumbled away in every direction.

He pulled himself up. There was an overturned brown box next to him.  _ Free cats _ was scribbled on the side. More free now than ever. 

He ran a hand through his hair and wiped his face. A pebble or two fell. Perhaps running at them hadn't been the best idea. He leaned his forehead against the building

“ _ Ugh _ .”

There wasn’t really a plan. More like sprouts of ideas he’d hoped would form into one. When he needed it to. But that  _ was _ one of his lot. Sunglasses. Nightclub. Murder spree. Giving off an impending sense of dread.

He kicked the wall, and shoved his hands in his pockets before walking back.

More people would die. Vampires more organized than him would come. His foot flung a rock across the street. Probably what she thought he was.

The Bently’s door was left ajar- he's fallen out of the seat more so than stood up. Soft sounds of a guitar melody leaked through.

There was a slight rustle by the tire. He bent down, and a small kitten peaked up at him. It scampered further under the car at the sight of him.

He hissed. “Get  _ out. _ ”

A moment passed. He sighed. “Please?”

He slid down the side of his car and sat, and leaned on the pavement to get a better look. The body of the cat was a fraction of the size of the tire. Ribs poked out of its white- blonde?- fur. Pale blue eyes looked back at him.

“Look, being a strays hard, trust me I  _ know,  _ but _ . But _ . I’d  _ really _ like to go home.”

It just stared. Another sigh. “Fine- I can wait.” He sat against his car, legs folded on the street, and did just that.

Minutes ticked by. He listened to the music, but it was mostly white noise.

His brain was fried. At some point during the night, he went from having some system of reasoning to scrambled eggs. Blurbs of thoughts that could've been ideas if he’d had any sleep. And now he was being held hostage by a cat.

He tilted his head towards the ground. “How bout this,” he said, “ _ If _ you come out- I'll buy you dinner."

A few more moments passed before he felt the soft downy fur brush the side of his hand. He wasted no time in snatching it up by its scruff.

The ends of fur curled. Blonde curls. He huffed.

It looked like Aziraphale. A mess of platinum twists. Rounded. Soft. Of course,  _ this _ creature could fit in the palm of his hand, and looked half-starved. Its ribs were small ripples across its fur. But the resemblance was there nonetheless.

He scratched its ear.

“You’re an asshole.”

It meowed. 

He slammed the door and drove. The cat pierced its claws into his jacket and hung itself at the crook of his neck. Crowley did  _ not _ drive slow. 

He arrived at a gas station in record time, and was out just as fast, a bag of beef jerky in hand. The cashier cooed asked what the “friendly little fellas” name was. And that did give him pause.

It wouldn't be his problem for more than a day or two, and you only name things you keep. But, if it looked vaguely similar to Aziraphale, and _ did _ have a name, it would, of course, be angelic as well. Abaddon made his lips twitch, he could imagine that reaction quite well.

_ “Good Lord! We aren’t naming a cat after the bottomless pit, Crowley.” _

He played out the argument in his head and snickered.

When he got back in, the store was ghost-quiet and grey, well past an hour any functioning person would be awake. He grabbed a whiskey glass from his cabinet, filled it with water, and dumped it and the jerky in the hallway, center stage. 

Maybe Aziraphale would like it. He’d heard bookstores kept cats in them from somewhere once. Didn’t take him for an animal person, but didn’t take him for  _ not _ an animal person either.

The kitten darted into the abyss of the shop the moment he tore it from his jacket. Crowley just looked, and then turned back to his door. If it wanted to live it would eat. And if not it wasn’t his problem, exactly. Free will. He locked the door.

The sweet embrace of his night clothes was a blessing, and the bed he hadn't used in days was like a hug. His mind was blank as he slept. With his body submerged as deeply into the bed as it could be, he probably could’ve slept for a few days straight.

It really was a shame he woke up to a scream.


End file.
